


Fresh Bread and Mornings

by inbetweencabs



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbetweencabs/pseuds/inbetweencabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John likes baking bread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Bread and Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> I based this on that story where John learned how to bake bread when he was on hiatus and just hanging out with Yoko and Sean in New York. He took a picture of his first loaf of bread, wasn't he awesome? :D (George was still the best though <3)

If one would to ask John what his favourite memories of home were, he would probably say that it was running along the streets of Strawberry Fields and not having to worry about planes that dropped bombs. Or maybe it was sitting in his room and cranking up a Buddy Holly record, the name _Quarrymen_ coming into his head for the first time like a memory that was meant to be well-remembered.

But nothing brought up the train of memories like the smell of newly-baked bread. His Aunt Mimi used to bring a fresh loaf of bread every Friday afternoon, signalling the coming of days full of freedom and late nights to dream half-awake dreams. John wanted Sean to have that same kind of certainty that he could have anywhere, a slice of his life that he could relive no matter where he was and who he was with.

And that was why John started baking bread. It was a project for Sean, something to occupy his time while the music rested and the craziness of his former life subsided into what he hoped would be a quiet and calm existence soon. And so while Yoko painted at her studio, John was slaving away at the kitchen, measuring flour and butter sticks, Sean trailing behind him and banging a spoon on the wooden floor.

Baking bread was harder than making a record, John realized, when weeks had passed and he still had not taken out a perfect loaf of bread from his oven. Too lumpy, like _Let It Be_ ; much too soft, like _Help!_ ; and generally, hard on the outside but mushy on the inside like _Abbey Road._ Sean was getting frustrated too and started hanging out with his mother more, clutching the hem of the kimono she wore to bed as soon as she left the kitchen.

But John knew that hard work paid off and one Thursday evening, just as he was finishing reading the day’s newspaper, the oven dinged and there it was, the perfect loaf of bread.

The smell wafted through the kitchen and John closed his eyes, inhaling the fresh, wonderful scent. But instead of seeing the many times that Aunt Mimi threatened to take away his guitar if he flunked one more class, he saw Hamburg in 1961. He could almost feel the heat coming from the dock, the thundering chaos of a crowd of sailors speaking in accents that he never really had the chance to catalogue.

John saw the way Stu’s face lit up when he sniffed and glanced around the room, until his eyes fell on the fresh loaf of bread sitting in the middle of empty cigarette packs and half-filled beer bottles. George had risen from the floor, eyes tracking Paul’s movement as he started to reach for the bread. Pete, as always, had remained motionless on his bed, snoring lightly.

They were young and John remembered thinking that those were their glory days, a time that could never be forgotten no matter how hard they tried. They were cool, they were young, they were reckless, they had the world at their feet – it was the perfect dream that had come true. And yet, at that moment, in that cramped cockroach-infested room they called home, John felt like all of his happiness could be found in a loaf of bread.

He remembered how he sat beside Stu on the floor, chasing the bread with a shared bottle of cheap whiskey. Paul and George had gone back to bed, cuddled together on the bottom bunk of Pete’s bed. The sunlight was coming in from the sole window high above their heads but the moisture from the brick wall still seeped on the back of their thin shirts. Stu’s hands were tearing the bread into small pieces, throwing it in the air for John to catch with his tongue.

John breathed deeply, almost feeling the sound of Stu’s muffled laughter on his shoulder, smelling his hair that tickled his nose. It was like walking through a snapshot of his life that he barely thought about but constantly felt. There in the middle of the tornado that was his life, there was that one moment when all of his happiness was tangible and real and _present_.

He heard the sound of tiny footsteps running towards him and he opened his eyes to see Sean looking at the bread with a wide grin on his face. John felt his heart soar when he heard the words, “you did it, Daddy!” and wondered why everything else that he had done with his life seemed paler in comparison.

But when Sean took his first bite, he finally knew why. Because there in the eyes of his son, he saw his memories and somehow, they didn’t seem distant anymore – they were once again, undoubtedly real.


End file.
